


loss / loss / win

by milleseptcent



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, English National Team, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Manchester United
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milleseptcent/pseuds/milleseptcent
Summary: It only takes a few shitty games over the course of twenty years for the universe to figure itself out.





	loss / loss / win

**0.**

Once, Gary is all of nine years old, looking at the words shifting on the side of his ma’s hand. For as long as he remembers, the black scripture has been there, restless and ever-changing – matching the one on his pa’s knee. He looks over to the kitchen table, where his dad is frowning at the newspaper, and asks out loud:

“What’s a soulmate?”

Of course, he already knows what a soulmate is. He’s heard the stories and seen the movies. But the stories and the movies are nothing like his ma and pa.

His dad looks up from the paper and chuckles.

“Well lad, a soulmate’s a lot of things.”

“What things?”

“For one, it’s someone who can make you feel better after a bad game.”

Gary giggles and his ma rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

**1.**

The tunnel at Old Trafford is buzzing with adrenaline as the players slowly trickle in. The derby had been tense, exhausting, neither team satisfied with the draw at full time.

Gary is already aggravated enough as he stalks the tunnel to the dressing rooms, rubbing at his arms, sore from clapping at the supporters, when he is suddenly cornered by an agitated-looking Carragher.

Gary immediately sneers, upper lip raising in surprise and disgust as he feels the other’s warm breath on his drizzle-cold skin. What does Carragher think he’s doing? He barely knows the man; they’ve been playing against each other in the Prem for what, two, three seasons, now. As far as Gary’s concerned, he’s just another one of those fucking Scousers – and quite an ugly one at that.

Not exactly who he’d imagine coming to look for him to _release some pressure_ after a game.

“We were the best out there on this fucking pitch,” Carragher spits in his face, getting all up in his space. “We deserved to win.” And ok, that is uncalled for, and suddenly Gary can feel all the irritation bubbling right up under his skin. That second half of waiting, working hard for a goal, for a win, the fucking unbreakable Liverpool defence, Gary’s passes going to waste – and Gary remembers quite clearly that Carragher _was _the one to ruin United’s last attacking chance, a fast tackle so close to the goal.

Suddenly, Carragher seems extremely well-suited for a post-game wank. Not that Gary has ever done anything like that, but, well, there is a first time for everything and if his teeth (clenched in anger) and his dick (getting semi-hard) are anything to go by, the time is now.

Gary unceremoniously grabs a handful of Carragher’s jersey and drags him further down the tunnel to an empty office, before slamming the door shut and crowding Carragher against it. The other man’s face is getting red, and he says aggressively:

“Oi, what the hell. Can’t handle the truth? You think you’re gonna beat me up, scrawny little thing that you are?”

Gary rolls his eyes. _What the fuck, does the man even know what he wants?_ Gary hadn’t been the one to take initiative, after all. “Shut your big Scouser mouth,” he mutters between his teeth, getting to work untucking Carragher’s dark green jersey, and pushing himself against him, backing him up against the wall. Carragher shudders when Gary’s icy hands touch his sides.

“Wait, what? What the fuck?”

Gary resists the urge to roll his eyes and looks Carragher in the face instead.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Carragher asks, looking dubious and a bit spooked under his scrunched-up brows. Gary slowly feels his face heat up, bright as his jersey, and when he speaks up again, it defensive.

“Just make up your mind already! You _were_ the one to wait for me after the game. You gotta know what that means, usually…” he trails off, looking at the forest green jersey.

Gary doesn’t see Carragher’s eyes widen as he understands Gary’s reading of the situation. He doesn’t see him biting his lip in consideration, then smirking. But he does hear the sardonic, low voice:

“That happen to you often, then?” Carragher taunts. “United’s pretty boy, are you? The lot of you probably don’t have anything better on hand, after all,” he adds, sneering.

Gary feels incensed. “Shut the fuck up, you ugly Scouser. Probably haven’t had anyone ever want anything to do with you, for you to be so clueless about all this, then? Had to try it with the enemy cause even your people don’t want to get close to that mug?”

“Got plenty of people trying to get me, you dumb fuck!” Carragher protests, and then his hands close around Gary’s arms, almost to the point of hurting, and he is shoving at him forcefully. Gary’s breath is knocked out of his lungs as his back hits the wall. But then, Carragher’s hands tug at his shorts, and Gary’s dick suddenly remembers its earlier interest, and, well. Gary enthusiastically goes to finish his task of untucking his rival’s jersey, getting his hands under it, and suddenly Gary is not cold anymore, not at all.

Gary lets himself rut against Carragher, smirking when he finds him hard as well.

“Got you all hot, don’t I now, you prick?” Gary says, his voice low and smug, scratching at Carragher’s back and letting a wave of superior satisfaction hit him as Carragher’s breath seems to catch in his throat. Carragher doesn’t answer, which – very good, if he can do more of that in the foreseeable future, that’d be just grand.

Instead, Carragher sticks his hands down his boxers, and then their naked cocks are rubbing against each other in Carragher’s big hand, and it should feel wrong, awkward, but it’s so good and exactly like everything Gary needs after this game, an enemy player getting him off in the secrecy of an Old Trafford nook, with his supporters chanting their devotion above his head. It almost feels like a win, this frustrating draw.

Gary feels overheated despite the cold office. Carragher bites into his neck, low, at the juncture of his shoulder as he comes, and Gary follows suit, moaning desperately, unable to stop himself. And then it’s over, and Carragher is gone after flashing him one last self-satisfied, infuriating smirk, and Gary is on the bus again after a hot shower that he has to rush – the post-game schedule, unsurprisingly, does not account for coming in your rival’s hand.

·····

Gary does not think much of it, until two months later, when they play the Scousers again.

The night is cold as hell, typical of an unwelcoming, Northern winter, and losing to Liverpool is certainly not doing any good warming the supporter’s hearts. But their blood seems to pump red nonetheless; United is still top of the League, after all. And they’d never been the kind to miss out on an occasion to hurl insults at Liverpool.

As the final whistle reverberates in the stadium, Gary can think of nothing else than a warm shower, to wash away the cold and the bitterness in his mouth that always comes with losing. Especially to the ugly, stupid, bastard Scousers. Especially at home.

The players regroup in clusters of disgusted reds and delighted yellows, and Gary takes the jumper a staff member offers him, teeth clenched even as the stands erupts into his song. The Mancunians are loud, trying to overpower the Scouse cheering in mad victory.

_Gary Neville is a red, is a red, is a red…_

He takes a swig of water, grimacing at how cold it is – or maybe at the thought of the horrors Sir Alex is going to put them through for losing the game and desecrating Old Trafford. The last derby had been bad enough, and it had been a draw.

With a shiver at the biting cold, Gary hastens to the tunnel at the end of which lay the blessed showers. He throws the pitch one last look, glaring at the away stand.

And of course, Carragher chooses this specific moment to look at the tunnel – and their eyes meet.

_Gary Neville is a red, he hates Scousers!_ come the chant above him, louder now that he is closer to the supporters.

Carragher glances at the stands, then at Gary, and he _smirks_.

Gary feels his face suddenly burn with a surge of feelings – embarrassment at the sudden memory (but not only, which is even more humiliating), anger, frustration, and most familiar of all, good old Scouser-hate. He grits his teeth in a sneer and disappears in the tunnel, barely seeing Carragher follow suit from the corner of his eyes.

He takes a turn, leaving the muted sound of locker room antics to his left, and stops in the middle of the corridor.

Carragher barely gives him any time to ponder on what the hell he’s doing, appearing almost immediately like a yellow-clad, smirking poltergeist.

The hate rises once more inside of Gary, his face contorting. He must look wild, with his face painted red with emotion, his hair sticking out, teeth bared. He doesn’t care, not when this _asshole_ is looking at him like that, like a man who’d just won, humiliated him on the pitch, and is about to further the humiliation off it, too.

Carragher takes a step towards him, and Gary doesn’t think for a second before pushing him against the wall, a spark of satisfaction crinkling in his chest as he hears the dull _thud_ of Carragher’s head against the wall.

“_He hates Scousers_, huh?” says Carragher, his accent all wrong, fucking up the melody of the chant. Gary huffs through his nostrils, his eyebrows wrinkling furiously.

“I didn’t think I could hate the lot of you more than I do but _you_ sure seem determined to prove me bleeding wrong.”

“And yet, looks like you’re quite eager to get very close to a Scouser right now, don’t you?” He’s finally stopped with the stupid smirk, which, good, but he’s still got a relaxed demeanour about him, like he couldn’t care less. Like this all doesn’t matter to him.

Rationally, Gary knows it does, he’s seen it in Carragher’s eyes back in March, and right before the game when they had shaken hands, when anything had still been possible. Gary should know. But right now, he is the one with the wild eyes and overwhelming frustration and dead possibilities. Gary, exhausted and angry and frustrated, is in no state to be rational.

Gary wants to hurt him, wants to punch that smile right off his face.

He wants.

He _wants_.

Gary doesn’t realize how close he’s gotten to Carragher, almost headbutting him, until Carragher speaks again, his voice lowered to a mutter but still mocking.

“Very close to a Scouser you’re getting, indeed. And right there where anyone could find us… What would Fergie say if he saw you…” The corner of his lips tightens – and no, Gary is _not_ looking at his lips, thank you – in hesitation or in smugness, Gary can’t tell, not that he cares. “If he saw us… brawling, like this,” he finally settles on.

Gary huffs through his nose, stepping away from the tall Scouser. He grabs his arm, hard, blunt nails sinking into the fabric of his long-sleeved jersey. He feels a wave of satisfaction wash over him at seeing Carragher’s answering grimace. Good for him.

He drags him forcefully further down the corridor, kicking a door open and throwing them both inside the empty office. As soon as they’re both in, he pushes the door shut and shoves Carragher against it, ducking his head to sink his teeth into his neck, right above the tight neckline of Carragher’s ugly yellow jersey – Gary might hate the Scouse red, but even he can admit it is better than whatever this away kit is.

Carragher lets out a breathy groan in surprise, and Gary hides a vicious grin as he feels his rival’s hands under his jersey, nails scraping against his skin.

Soon enough, Carragher’s hand is jerking them off, like he’d done last time, Gary trying to bite back moans as he feels his rough thumb against the sensitive head of his cock. He comes with a shudder, breathing hard into Carragher’s neck before disentangling himself from him.

He feels like he is made out of cotton, muscles sore, heavy from fatigue and his orgasm. He can only muster a vague sneer of disgust as Carragher rearranges his dirty clothing.

He makes it back to the changing rooms just in time to catch the tail end of Sir Alex’s angry rant, which finds a practical finish in asking where the _fuck_ Gary had been, and promising him hell at the next training session, a promise that soon is extended to the entire squad. Gary huffs and goes to brood under the shower, looking down at the angry red scratches on his lower abdomen until all his skin is red from the burning hot water and he can’t distinguish them anymore.

As soon as he gets home, Gary is out like a light, sleeping way better than he ever could after derbies, the bite on his neck still throbbing.

His mind doesn’t even turn to his current favourite worries – the fact that all his mates, including Becks, are getting soulmarks one by one while his own skin remains blank, and _what if there’s just no one out there for him_– 

Huh.

  
  
  
  


**2.**

It has truly been a crap game, Carra thinks somberly as he enters the empty dressing rooms. There’s a shower running, and only one bag left on the bench beside his own. Jamie raises an eyebrow as he recognizes it.

The staff _had_ told him that he was waiting for a teammate so they could drive together to the national team hotel in the center of Zagreb. It only seemed no one had deemed it useful to inform him that said teammate was none other than Gary Neville.

Then again, maybe they had feared his reaction – and it’s not like Jamie can blame them. He's not exactly nice to the Mancs on international duty, though he has gotten slightly less awful with time. But everyone has been treading carefully ever since Neville went and made it all worse with his smug crest-kissing celebration back in January.

None of that matters now, though, as Jamie stands in the dressing rooms of Stadion Maksimir, which is painted a garish lime green, listening to Neville use up all the warm water in Zagreb. The sod is probably busy moping about the sorry state of English football – or most probably, about his newly-acquired own goal tally. Jamie scoffs. It had been the painstaking cherry on top of an excruciating game, this pitiful goal.

Jamie had been subbed off a mere few minutes afterwards, which was good because he'd felt like he’d vaguely pulled something in his calf. But watching the game drag on from the bench was a terrible thing. Usually, seeing his team lose filled Jamie with anger and determination to do better the next time – but then again, usually his team was red, not white.

Disappointing an entire nation was a specific kind of bitterness, but the taste was deceptively bland.

Jamie had felt like his calf could more than handle the wait to get back to the hotel, but he’d been happy enough to skip the post-match talks when McClaren had sent him straight to the physios, along with the lesser Neville who had managed to get injured during warm up. Smart fucker, Jamie had wondered, who’d probably unfortunately forgotten to pull out of selection but still did not want to take part in embarrassing crown and country.

Phil had ended up being released on time to get on the bus with the rest of the players, which left Carra alone, with nothing to do but stare at the offending green walls and wait out Neville’s little shower breakdown.

The water finally turns off and Jamie waits a few seconds before making some noise, clanging his locker door to inform Neville of his presence. The movements on the other side of the wall stop, and that terrible Manc accent asks:

“Who’s there?”

“Jus’ me.” Jamie does not bother with a name. They’d been seeing enough of each other and having enough _private talks_ since 2000 for Neville to recognize him by voice by now, he thinks. A moment later, Neville huffs and says wryly:

“We’re doing it derby style, then? The FA’s hotel beds aren’t good enough for you now, are they?”

Jamie rolls his eyes, feeling himself smile a little, and doesn’t answer as he sits down on the bench next to Neville’s bag. At least Neville is not in a completely shitty mood. He might yet get himself something good out of this whole debacle of a game.

Neville gets out of the showers and into the dressing room, and Jamie notes his scowl as he takes in the horrendous green walls, eyebrows furrowing. He’s probably having thoughts in the same vein as those Carra had been having himself, about how noble a color red is – and doesn’t that make them surprisingly similar. Maybe that is why their little post-derby secret has been going strong for more than half a decade now.

“So, your first goal for England shirt,” Jamie says, because he is physically incapable of not taking the piss when confronted to a Manc in general, and to Neville in particular.

The man’s scowl deepens and he turns to Jamie, who tries not to be too pleased at the glorious sight that is a pissed-off and half-naked Gary Neville looking at him, eyes blazing.

“Look who’s talking now. Though I guess that there’s no one better than the expert to comment on that.”

And with that, Gary is frowning again, eyes empty, promptly sent into another bout of _I-hate-this-entire-place_.

Jamie snickers and stuffs his dirty kit in his bag. As he bends down, though, he can’t help but notice a flash of red in the folds of Gary’s bag next to his own. Checking that Gary is a safe distance away, moodily drying his hair, he plunges his hand in Gary’s bag and grabs at the soft red fabric, already knowing what it is. Still, he lets out a startled laugh when he unfolds the Manchester United number 2 jersey and holds it out in front of him, making Gary’s head snap up in his direction.

“Hey, get your dirty paws off that! Put it back!”

“You bring your Man United jersey on international break?” Jamie snickers, doing a stellar job of ignoring Neville.

“Like you don’t bring your own jersey! I’ve seen it last night in your suitcase!” Gary yells back, feeling defensive.

“Sure, but I don’t bring it with me on games.”

“Well, I do! What’s it to you?”

Gary is _not _getting lectured on feeling strongly for his club by Jamie Scousest-Scouser Carragher. The man breathed, ate and most of all talked Liverpool. His only shortcoming had, apparently, been to fall into bed with Gary most-Manc-Manc Neville, and then again that whole thing had started with trying to fight him and going about it wrong, and fiery rivalry had done the rest.

After all, Gary is _intimately_ aware of the fact that Carragher is the sort of man who considers rants on how most of the Premier League, and especially Manchester United, really fucking sucks, and Liverpool is the best team in the world, to be acceptable pillow talk.

But then again, Gary is also the sort of man who enjoys lazily quipping back at Jamie in post-orgasmic glow, forgetting for a moment how he wants to punch him in the face most of the time and instead snickering with him about how crap Chelsea’s new manager has been doing lately.

But back to the present, Gary has been getting zero orgasms and one own goal to his record tonight, and so his tolerance for smug Scouser antics is quite low.

“Put it back, I said,” he growls, advancing towards the bench where Jamie is sitting. “Before you get it all Scouser-dirty.” He tries to tower menacingly over him, a feat that is kind of difficult as he is dressed in only a towel and his damp hair is flopping over his forehead.

Jamie just smirks up at him deviously, and then in a flurry of movement he’s taking off his shirt and before Gary can say anything, he is staring gobsmacked at a red jersey-clad Carragher. Jamie smiles up at him, a twinkle in his eye and puffing out his chest. Gary opens his mouth to try and protest, but any and all words are blocked in his throat as his eyes fall to the United crest on Carragher’s chest, and he feels his mouth go dry. A mix of emotion rushes through his chest in a wave of heat – annoyance and possessiveness and desire all at once.

Carragher cocks an eyebrow at him, and Gary feels the tip of his ears go red and his body react in a way that the flimsy towel around his hips is not going to be hiding for long. He suddenly feels very aware of how close to Jamie he is standing.

“Oh my God. You like his,” Jamie says, and it would have sounded smug if his voice wasn’t heavy with accent and rough with arousal. When Gary doesn’t offer an answer, staring wordlessly at him instead, he needles further: “Should have known it. There’s nothing that gets you more hot and bothered than your little club. Bet you just love seeing me in that awful kit, don’t you. Been dreaming about it?”

“Shut up,” Gary answers, and he bends down to kiss Jamie. The angle is awkward, but at least there is no more annoying Scouse voice to say things he definitely does not need to hear. Jamie kisses back, hands coming up to hold Gary’s head, fingers threading through his almost-dry hair. Gary feels breathless, wanting, needing to touch. He gets his hands on the jersey, caressing the red fabric for a moment before he pulls on it.

Jamie gets it, thankfully, letting himself be pulled up. He breaks the kiss for a moment and Gary’s eyes snap open. Jamie manoeuvers them over to the table in the middle of the dressing room, pushing Gary against it. Gary is catching his breath, staring at Jamie, his eyes roaming down his face, his neck, and then the crisp white neckline, the deep red, the gold and red crest resting on a white background. Jamie looks at Gary looking, at his wide eyes, shiny lips, almost-dry hair hopelessly mussed.

“God, Neville,” he murmurs, breath warm against Gary’s lips. Their eyes find each other, and they stare for one electrifying moment before Jamie’s hand comes to rest on Gary’s jaw, bringing him in another heated kiss.

The dressing rooms had been a bit chilly when Gary had gotten out of the showers and Jamie’s hands are a searing warmth on the cool skin of his shoulders, his back, his waist. Gary makes a helpless little noise against Jamie’s lips and pulls him in closer, arms closing around his shoulders as he presses himself against him, feeling the silky jersey against his naked chest. He’s hard already.

It is all very intoxicating, to be doing this here, in the dressing rooms, right after having played for the same side for once – usually, the perks of international break are sex in an actual bed instead of their usual romp in whatever secluded area of Anfield or Old Trafford they can find. Most of all, to have Carragher under him in United colours, in _his _colours, with _his _name proudly displayed all across his back…

Gary is pretty sure they’re breaking at least a dozen rules of the proper rivalry shag etiquette – if there is even such a thing as a proper rivalry shag, but it’s all _so _hot, he can’t give less of a toot. Neither does Jamie, apparently, as he breaks the kiss and mumbles against his lips:

“Gonna make you feel so good, love, so good…” He pecks Gary’s lips, his cheek, and goes to nibble at his ear.

“Want you to fuck me,” Gary says, voice breaking as he feels Jamie suck on his neck. “D’you have anything?”

“No. Left it all at the hotel.”

Gary moans. Jamie is licking lower down his neck, tracing his tongue across his pulse, and as he bends to reach his clavicle, Gary can see the top of the letters tracing his name on Carragher’s back. “God, need you, J, need you so bad.” He is dropping the last name, but it is hard not to jump to first names when someone is slowly making you come undone.

“I’m right there, love, you’ve got all of me.” A shudder runs down Gary’s spine at the words. Damn that Scouser for having a mouth to him. And that mouth is getting to work again, giving Gary one last open-mouthed kiss before Jamie gets down to his knees. He pulls the towel off, Gary watching, his eyes fixing alternatively on Jamie’s face and the red fabric stretched across his back, muscles moving under it.

His erection is bobbing, red and already leaking at the tip, but Jamie is ignoring him, biting at Gary’s hipbone and scattering kisses along his thighs. With an inarticulate grunt, Gary puts his hand on Jamie’s head, just threading his fingers in his hair without pushing, but getting his point across if Jamie’s huffed laugh (warm on his blazing skin, oh god) is anything to go by. Gary is way too aroused to be in the mood for games tonight.

Finally, Jamie’s mouth closes around Gary, too warm, and silky as the jersey’s shiny fabric, overwhelming in all the right ways. Gary resists the urge to throw his head back, looking down at Jamie’s luscious mouth instead. One of Jamie’s hands is pumping lazily at the base of his dick while the other is at the back of his thigh, caressing the skin, fondling his ass a little.

Gary tries not to buck into his mouth as Jamie does that thing with his tongue that he likes, and then does it again. He raises one hand to his mouth, biting hard at the back of his hand to muffle his moans.

Jamie lets go of his erection for a moment, still jerking him off, faster now, while he catches his breath. Then he takes him in again, licking at the tip then swallowing, and it isn’t long until he can feel Gary beginning to come apart. His hips are stuttering, like he is trying not to fuck Jamie’s mouth but failing, and he is moaning loudly through his fingers.

“Fuck, Jamie, I’m, I’m…”

Jamie chooses that precise moment to get his mouth off Gary’s dick. Gary lets out a loud moan of frustration as Jamie licks him from base to tip, watching his prick twitch.

“What are you doing?” Gary forces out, voice faint. Jamie licks at him once more before getting up to kiss him. Gary feels his wet erection catch in the fabric of Jamie’s shorts, feeling his head turn, on the brink of orgasm but not quite. His knees buckle, and Jamie stops kissing him for a moment to prop him up on the table. He looks at him with heated eyes, one calloused hand going to play with Gary’s balls in feather-light touches.

“Don’t even need to get you in my shirt to know you’re mine, do I? Not when I got you like this, all hot just for me… Bet it’s all you can think about when you’re getting yourself off.”

Gary breaks the kiss, burying his face in Jamie’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Jamie keeps going:

“We’ve been in there a while, haven’t we? Should probably get out there, or the bus driver is going to worry. I’d keep you all hot, like that, ‘til the hotel, then I can fuck you, jus’ like you asked, fast and hard, make you come all over the FA’s fancy hotel sheets. Or I can lick you, take it slow, get you to beg a little?”

Gary feels a long shudder at the suggestion. They’d done that, last international break, when they’d been playing most of their qualification games at Old Trafford, and Gary had taken Jamie back to his flat one day after training, and they’d made it long and wordless, until Gary could barely remember his name, trembling with overstimulation as Jamie fucked him slowly.

“Shut up,” he whines, lifting his head from Jamie’s shoulder to glare at him. “I wanna come, now. You can fuck me later.” Though it isn’t a very effective glare, with his cheeks red and his breathless voice, it works well enough on Jamie, who isn’t actually faring much better for all of his bravado. And he hasn’t even touched Jamie yet. Suddenly, he has the urge to.

“Less clothes,” he mumbles, pulling haphazardly at Jamie’s shorts and underwear. Soon, he’s got him undressed, except for the jersey which Gary decides is not coming off, and Gary has his hands on Jamie’s dick, which is doing a great job at shutting him up.

Jamie’s hand comes to rest on his own as he angles their hips together, Gary resting on the table and Jamie between his spread thighs. Jamie aligns their dicks, and Gary lets out a loud groan as the friction of both their hands and Jamie’s erection against his own sent him straight back to the edge of his orgasm. Jamie is dropping kisses on his chin and Gary draws him into a wet and messy kiss, both of them moaning and their hands work furiously, all pretenses abandoned and desperation taking over.

As Gary feels his orgasm come in burning waves in his belly, he clutches desperately at the red fabric of Jamie’s – his – jersey. His fingers find the embroidered edges of the crest, and he pants in Jamie’s mouth as he outlines the red devil. Soon, Gary is breaking the kiss and coming hard, gripping the crest and shuddering as Jamie strokes him through his orgasm before coming as well with a grunt.

They sag against each other, trying to catch their breath. Gary’s mind is delightfully blank and there is a soft ringing in his ears. He can distantly feel as Jamie is kissing along his neck. When he feels like he can remember where he is, Gary raises his head to kiss Jamie, gentle and soft, and doing this in a dressing room still is weird.

Usually, after derbies, either the loser is eager to storm off after a heated session of pissed-off sex, or it is hungry, hurried post-orgasm making out, feeling as if they can’t get enough of each other before they have to go back to their respective dressing rooms with shitty excuses. The slow kisses are usually reserved for international break, which means sex in beds and more softness than either of them are quite comfortable acknowledging.

Still feeling a bit dazed, Gary distantly registers Jamie taking off the red jersey and using it to clean them both. He feels vaguely outraged, but without real heat or energy behind it as a shiver runs through him at the feeling of the jersey running across the sensitive skin of his belly – and there it is, the orgasmic glow-induced Scouser-tolerance.

Then Jamie is stepping back, and Gary feels himself go through the familiar gestures of getting dressed. Silently cursing how cold this hellhole of a stadium is, and then frowning in disgust at the sight of his precious jersey soiled wakes him up a little, enough to explain who they are and why they haven’t left yet to stadium attendants, then to locate and get onto the extra England bus that is waiting for them.

“You lads sure took your time,” the driver says, looking moderately disgruntled at the long wait.

“Sorry about that, Callum. Got caught up with the physios.” Carragher answers as they settle in the seat next to the front door, Gary sandwiched between the window and Jamie’s warm weight. It would be weird to sit on opposite sides of the empty coach, he reasons.

“Nothing too bad, for sure?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m a tough one, I am.”

Gary muffles a yawn in his hand, letting his mind wander as Jamie’s chatter blends in the background. Callum is Northern and generally grouchy – he is a Sheffield supporter, which means he dislikes most players on the national team solely due to petty rivalry. He tends to cut fellow Northerners some slack on account that “even though God knows I don’t like you lot, Mancs and Scousers, I’d still pick you over the Londoners any day”, and only a few people seems to find grace in his eyes. Amongst those are, God knows why, Jamie Carragher. But then again, Gary has found that Carragher gets on well enough with most people when he puts his mind to it.

Gary looks down at his hand pressed against Carragher’s, and thinks back of these hands on him earlier, of what Carragher had said. About Gary being his.

Now, Gary usually does not usually spend too much time pondering what Jamie says in bed. He is talkative, that is for sure, and he calls him “Gary” and “love” and says all sorts of stuff that does not mean anything - even though it is quite hot in the heat of the moment.

But that one thing, well, it hits quite close to home. Because it _is_, indeed, all that he can think about when he jerks off. And when he goes on dates. Which, by the way, are increasingly difficult to find, because he is famous, sort of, and finding someone discreet enough not to use the knowledge that he has no mark is a challenge he can hardly fit into his busy schedule, most of the time.

Sex with Carragher is easy, it is practical, it is a good arrangement. Carragher understands that football comes first, always, he is intense and sharp about the game like him. He understands what it feels like, what Gary needs after a hard game, when he is looking for soft and when he is looking for hard and clashing. He understands when Gary has to change positions because of an injury or an ill-timed cramp. Most of all, sex with Carragher is fucking _good_, Carragher knows what Gary likes, and Gary has come to _tolerate_ and maybe even _appreciate_ the rough jawline, the high cheekbones, the smile and laugh that come easy for his teammates, and on some occasions for Gary – Carragher isn’t as ugly as he’d previously thought.

And Carragher does not have a soulmark. Gary knows he is less celibate outside of their arrangement than himself, has heard him discuss dates and one-night stands with teammates – not that he is listening for national team gossip or anything, but the Scousers have all in common that they're raucous and can’t keep their mouths shut. But despite all of Carragher's blatant relationship-seeking, Gary spends enough time in close proximity to him to know his skin is still blank of any words.

Gary has not thought about what he would do in the case of Carragher’s words appearing on his skin, he has not – or well, not before being well in his pints, in any case. He does not know whether to feel more relieved or disappointed that the words haven't appeared.

**3.**

“Gary Neville speaking, what can I do for you?”

“Have ya watched the latest game, then?”

Gary groans, hurrying away from the bed and checking his phone screen, even though he definitely doesn’t need to. Even Jamie has recognized Paul Scholes’ voice, and Gary has probably heard enough of it rattling his ear off in pubs or during games or on long-distance calls for it to be a sixth sense by now.

The phone must have picked up the suspicious rustling and embarrassed coughing from the background, because the next thing Gary says is:

“No, no you’re _not_ interrupting _anything, _you arsewipe. Yes, I have watched the game, though I’d rather I hadn’t.”

In the absence of the red-headed offender, Gary glares at Jamie, who holds his hands up in outraged innocence. The man looks like a dimwit, Gary thinks to himself while half-listening to Scholes annoyingly rambling on. It is a soothing thought.

And then he definitely does _not _think about how he also looks really hot, shirt rumpled and cheeks red from their previous activities - which _have been _very much interrupted, actually.

“Listen, Scholesy, I really have to run –”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re calling it these days?”

Gary hangs up and looks at his phone, then at Jamie.

“If you think there’s any chance of us doing anything after that…” Jamie starts.

Despite Gary’s attempts at a murderous stare (which is made both less and more effective by the way his hair is sticking up on one side from the way Jamie’s finger have carded through it while making out), ten minutes later, Gary is back in a decent state of dress and making tea.

Ten years ago, they wouldn't have gotten discouraged by a mere phone call, no matter how Manc – actually, Jamie can remember pretty clearly jacking Gary off as his then-rival had been having a conversation through the wall with a concerned physio, only stopping when the man had asked if Gary was sure he was alright, and if he needed him to go and get Sir Alex. And even then, he'd brought him off and scampered away right before the manager’s arrival.

But they'd been younger and bolder – and hornier after running across the pitch, high on rage and rivalry for 90 minutes, Jamie muses as he watches Gary puttering about in the kitchen.

“So,” Gary starts from the inside of the cupboard, “I guess we might actually get some work done now.”

Jamie huffs out a laugh. “Don’t sound so disappointed. The original plan was to have a work meeting.”

Gary pouts, his back still thankfully turned to Jamie. He doesn’t say that this was never the original plan, but rather a flimsy excuse for Jamie to help him get his mind off that terrible Manchester United game he somehow has to find it in himself to comment on next week.

In the end, Gary manages to scrape together some pretty neutral reflections on Mourinho’s tactics and to back Jamie against the counter for a make out session, teacups drying next to them in the sink.

All in all, not as much of a terrible evening as the 3-1 to Watford could have presaged.

Later, when Jamie has bent Gary over the arm of the couch and made him come with a gasp, when they’ve taken a shower and kissed deep and lazy and slow, Jamie cradling his face in his hands, thumbs stroking tenderly at the bruise he’d sucked into Gary’s neck earlier, making Gary feel weak and tired and _right_ –

Jamie kisses him one last time, in bed, and it's awkward because he's already got his shoes on and he has one knee resting precariously on the edge of the bed, and his jacket is cold when Gary tangles his fingers in it, pulling Jamie in, closer. Still, Jamie eventually gets up and then the front door clangs closed and an engine rears in Gary’s driveway, and Gary wills himself to fall asleep right away, without thinking about how he’d really like Jamie to stay, these days.

He feels worn out from the sex, but there is also a deeper weariness, because maybe he’s wanted Jamie to stay for years. Decades, even. Before the cold jacket, his fingers have tangled in jerseys, white ones, red ones; and dress shirts, and he’d listened to all sorts of doors close, hotels, and dressing rooms, and offices.

Gary doesn't think and tries to sleep it all away.

·····

The next morning, he wakes up earlier than he’d like to straighten up his notes. He jumps under the shower, and nearly slips to his death when he notices something on his arm.

Not just something.

_Words_.

His heart beats loud in his ears and he gets out of the shower hurriedly, and then he is standing, naked and dripping on his bathroom rug, staring dumbfoundedly at the pale skin of his bicep.

_Gary_, the (thankfully tiny) black letters read, and he lets out a hysterical laugh, because, what?

·····

“So, what you’re telling me,” Paul says. “Is that the only clue we have about your soulmate is that whoever it is, is thinking of you.”

“Yeah,” Gary says miserably.

“So basically, we know that your soulmate is… your soulmate.”

“Stop taking the piss. This is serious!”

Scholesy does _not_ stop taking the piss. Especially not when Gary miserably recounts his tale of going to buy concealing tape – the pharmacist had told him that, depending on where he was going to apply the tape and how regularly, he might want to shave. Paul’s guffaws evolve into wheezing at that, which, good, if he could just die that would be great because Gary hates him. The thought nearly makes Gary feel better about the memory of the woman’s fake sympathy – people who end up needing to hide their soulmarks range everywhere from unlucky sods to tragically romantic heroes.

Gary definitely knows where he stands on that scale.

When Paul’s voice stops sounding all scrunched up like he’s on the verge of falling into laughter again, he composes himself and says:

“Well mate, thanks for the entertainment. You’re a real funny one, ain’t you. You’ll tell Carragher hello from me, yeah?”

“What?”

There’s a beat of silence and Gary contemplates how much he really hates him.

“Well. It’s got to be Carragher, innit?”

“…Why would you say that?”

“Oh, drop the act already. You and Carragher have been screwing for, what, twenty years now? Or have you been seeing anyone else lately?”

Gary feels his face burn. Twenty years and this is the closest he’d come to discussing his little arrangement with Carragher with anyone.

It is bad enough he’d had to tell Paul in the first place.

The man had confronted him when Gary had run out of excuses for his sneaking off after derbies and during international break, around 2001 or 2002. He'd come to him, all captain-like, to blabber on about how his disappearances after some games were getting noticed. Apparently, Sir Alex was beginning to feel less like Gary needed understanding and alone time after a hard game, and more like he needed a boot to the behind to help him get his shit together.

Gary had not been able to make up an excuse on the fly, and he'd dropped the truth and prayed for the best, which had happened, in the form of Scholesy looking like he’d just bitten into an apple filled with hot sauce. He’d muttered that he, for one, had never felt like he had to suck a Scouser off after a derby. Then he’d just walked away dumbfounded, probably straight to a mirror to practice his Look Of Judgement.

After that, Gary had been extremely keen on never mentioning it again, and they hadn’t, except for Scholesy’s raised eyebrows and disapproving downturn of the lips two or three times a year, and much more during international break.

Gary grumbles into the phone, something that is maybe denial. No, this can’t be it, their thing is a rivalry thing, and he never, ever stays the night. 

It is not like Paul can understand, anyways. For as long as Gary has known him, he’s had Claire’s words weaving on his calf – the dominant one, too, the one which sent balls flying at the back of nets, which is bloody romantic as far as Gary is concerned. Paul had told him the story, once. He'd come up to her in high school and nervously asked her to go to the movies. She'd blushed and by the time they’d gone out of the theater both of their marks had appeared, and from then it was smooth sailing and a matter of when they would tie the knot.

Gary hangs up promptly, after that, helplessly wondering about how yesterday he’d hung up on the same red-headed wanker, blissful in his ignorance, mind free of potential Scouser soulmates and questions about shaving his arm hair. He desperately wants to go back to being that person.

·····

It can’t be Carragher.

Of course, there’s an easy solution to that conundrum. Gary could just _ask_ Carra if he recognizes the words.

But Gary’s already reasoned that it can’t be Carragher, so it’s no use asking. That would just be awkward. Despite all their promises that this all meant nothing, Gary can’t imagine Carragher would take well to someone else’s words on Gary’s skin – he doesn’t let himself think about Carra’s sad but accepting eyes as he tells him it’s over.

(He can’t imagine he would take well to Jamie’s skin being still as blank as usual, either.)

Which is why Gary doesn’t open the text he gets Thursday morning: _My place on Saturday for the game?_

Gary knows exactly what that means, and he knows he can’t let himself fall for it.

Fooling around with a Scouser was alright when it was out of rivalry; or out of boredom on international duty. It was alright after Gary retired, getting old and still wordless despite the scars marring his legs and the more recent wrinkles that he frowns at every morning in the mirror.

But he’s run out of excuses – despite all he can tell Paul, Gary knows it’s not rivalry anymore; and he can’t keep that kind of thing going if he’s going to have a (definitely-not-Scouse) soulmate.

Gary doesn’t open the text. He doesn’t go to Liverpool on Saturday.

·····

Gary doesn’t like wearing the tape. It itches and he’s always tempted to pick at it and check the words. He wants to know what they say, like a question mark constantly hanging at the back of his mind; but he doesn’t want to look at them – he doesn’t like the way they always bring more questions than answers.

It can’t be Carragher – but also it can’t _not_ be Carragher.

It can’t be Carragher because if it was – why now?

Why not the first time Carragher shoved his icy hands against his skin, all these years ago; or the first time they kissed rough and hungry, or any of the times afterwards, learning to go from hard to tender with each other? Why not the first time Gary had paid for drinks at the pub and brought them over to their table with a rueful smile and Carragher’s delighted “Cheers” had felt like a truce?

Why not the first Monday night at Sky studios after Gary had come back from Valencia, when they’d stepped out of their dressing rooms at the exact same time, and Gary had laughed but Jamie hadn’t, coming up to Gary instead in order to wordlessly fix his tie and smooth the lapels of his blazer, and their eyes had met, almost tentative, and Gary had blushed and said, “Now why are you looking at me like that for?” and ignored the creeping suspicion that _maybe_ he knew why.

Why not that time when Jamie was over at his, and there’d been a re-run of an old match, and Jamie had looked at the TV intently as Manchester scored before saying “He was quite something, huh”. On the screen, Giggs had just pushed the ball into the net, but Gary had known that this wasn’t about Giggsy as the camera replayed Beckham’s assist. “At one point I worried – I thought, that he was – that you were –” Jamie had paused. “But then he left, and I knew that there was something there – that he wouldn’t have left if – that your soulmate couldn’t be someone who leaves.” There’d been a silence, Gary hands white-tight, clenched around the creamer, his throat feeling closed and choked up, and he’d known – that he wouldn’t let anyone else talk to him like that – talk to him about that at all.

“You’re not making any sense,” he’d said, and turned off the TV.

He’d also known that Jamie was right – and he’d tried not to think about all the stupid interviews stupid Carragher used to give, saying he’d never leave his stupid team, that he was a one club man at heart, and how Gary used to find that admirable – still does.

·····

It can’t _not_ be Carragher, though, because Gary goes to the pub down the road on Saturday to watch United’s shitshow of a game, and in his moment of weakness, he admits to himself that he doesn’t want to watch this go down with anyone else but Carragher, and when has he started to be so needy in the first place.

He drowns his sorrow in cold beer and fellow fans’ cheers, the whole time missing a hot cup of tea on Jamie’s sofa and the man’s cheerful comments on United’s terrible positioning and lack of discipline.

·····

It’s a miracle Gary makes it to London on time and in one piece on Monday. It’s not like he’s _worried_ or _agitated_ but – he almost misses his train after spending a few too many moments staring into nothing as he imagines Carra never wanting to speak to him ever again.

He calculates his arrival early enough to dodge Carragher – the man is always just on this side of late, but never enough to be impolite, which Gary usually finds annoying but is thankful for now, because that means he’ll have to rush straight to the locker room without stopping to ask Gary questions.

Well, that is, _usually_.

Because when Gary walks in the changing rooms, Carragher is already there, already in gym clothing, puttering about in his locker. His back is turned to Gary, which means he hasn’t noticed him yet, but Gary can’t _not_ sit next to him, that would definitely be weird –

His thoughts halt to a stop when his eyes fall on Carragher’s calf. Right there, on the inside of his knee, are letters.

A word, and even from where he’s standing, Gary can read it.

_Jamie_.

He hears nothing but the deafening rush of blood in his ears and burning heat on his face. Those are his words, he’s sure of it, and it’s such an easy thing, so evident under the white light in the locker room that it’s almost absurd.

All these questions during all those years, and that’s it – the nights spent tossing and turning, the times he’d enviously looked at his teammates’ proudly exposed marks, the sneers at soulmate stories – and that’s _it_. All the answers, and it’s only five letters under the artificial light of the changing room.

He feels exposed and at peace, calm and exhilarated.

Carragher turns around, and spots him, and at once Gary knows that he doesn’t know. Carra’s a private man, and he’d never walk around with an exposed soulmark if he knew he had one.

“Oh, hi, Neville, nice of ya to show up,” Carragher says, and he looks a little bit cross, but Gary knows he’s forgiven already – and he’s proven right in the slight silence that follows, when Jamie’s grumpy frown mellows out into concern at Gary’s lack of an answer and his probably spooked look.

“We’re soulmates,” Gary blurts out, and he feels just like he would back in the day, when he would make a last chance tackle, recklessly clattering into another player, wind knocked out of him and waiting for the ref’s whistle.

Carragher freezes, and for a moment he looks like he too is waiting for a ref to appear out of nowhere and make the hard decision for him.

“What?” He finally says.

Gary drops his bag to the floor and walks up to him, taking off his jacket and throwing it on the bench. He stops in front of Jamie, rucking up his shirt sleeve and ripping off the bandage.

_Gary_, the word reads, and Gary looks up at Jamie as he takes it in, his eyes going wide. Gary glances back down and feels himself blush as the words shift to: _Mine_.

When he looks back at Jamie, he finds blue eyes fixed on him, crinkled in a smile, and Gary’s face heats up some more at the way that Jamie’s looking at him, happy, a bit like he’s the best thing since Liverpool’s Champions League trophy. He lets himself enjoy it though, letting himself smile in return.

“What are you looking at me like that for,” Gary asks.

This time, he sure of the answer, but he’s in no hurry to hear it. They’ve got all the time in the world to say it – it’s etched right there in their skin, and it’s been etched way deeper than that for way longer than this.

Jamie touches Gary’s soulmark lightly, tracing it with the tips of his fingers, and Gary shivers. He is not going to get a hard-on from getting his arm felt up, though, and so he distracts Jamie by pointing him to his own soulmark.

“I have tape, if you want to cover it,” he says. There’s a beat.

“Why would I do that?” Jamie asks, and Gary finds he doesn’t have an answer as he looks at Jamie looking at his soulmark in disbelieving wonder. Somehow, over the course of the past twenty years, having a Scouser as a soulmate has become less embarrassing than shaving his arm hair – less embarrassing than watching United’s terrible games on his own.

He drops the roll of flesh-colored bandage back in his bag and shrugs.


End file.
